


Fiddler's Elbow

by sunbreaksdown



Category: Homestuck
Genre: F/F, Humanstuck
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-09-02
Updated: 2012-09-02
Packaged: 2017-11-13 09:58:37
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,345
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/502240
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sunbreaksdown/pseuds/sunbreaksdown
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You'd like to say that you've never woken up like this before, bed covers lost to some far corner of your room, a warm body on either side of you, but that would be a lie. You'd like to say that this is all a result of one too many drinks, and that everything is so much of a blur that you can't remember who kissed who first, but again: that would be a lie.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Fiddler's Elbow

**Author's Note:**

> Welcome to the fandom, Porrim. Have some ladies.

     She steps into your tattoo parlour, well aware that she's out of place, and doesn't let that intimidate her. She doesn't look much like your regular sort of customer: she's wearing a powdery blue dress, white-framed glasses, and there's not a drop of ink on her. At least not anywhere you can see, leant against the counter, chin propped up on your knuckles. She walks with her hands clasped behind her back, taking her time in looking at the photos showcasing your work across the walls, and when she tucks a strand of red hair behind her ear, you can tell that even those aren't pierced. 

     She turns around, and you have a smile ready for her.

     “Can I help you?” you ask, idly turning the pages of your appointment book with one hand. As luck would have it, you don't have anything scheduled for another half an hour; and beyond that, you've never had difficulty making time for an attractive lady looking to get her first tattoo.

     “I think you might be able to!” she says cheerfully, rocking on the balls of her feet once she's drifted over to the counter. “A friend of mine has a birthday coming up shortly, and she can be notoriously difficult to buy for — either the gifts aren't thoughtful enough, or they aren't as flashy as she likes them to be. So I thought I'd get her something a little more out of the ordinary, something that I know she'd appreciate.”

     When she talks about her friend, she pauses just before the word, and says it with a certain softness; you wouldn't be surprised if this is supposed to be more than a simple gift to celebrate a birthday. You raise an eyebrow, and hope it looks as if you're anticipating the upcoming business.

     “Well, I can't say that I have anything I could gift wrap for you to take home,” you say, flashing her a grin. Her mouth tugs at the corners, and she returns the grin, a little bashful, but far from self-conscious. “But I can be of assistance. Any idea what your friend is in the market for?”

     You say friend just as carefully as she did, and for half a second, it looks as if she's lost her train of thought.

     “Perhaps she might be interested in a tattoo. She's spoken about them at length, and she does already have several piercings...” she trails off, gaze dropping to your mouth. She glances away, but looks back immediately; she must realise that she's hardly the first person in the world to stare at your lip ring. Her brow rises a little, and she touches two fingers above an eye, as you push at the inside of your piercing with the tip of your tongue. “Up here. Something different would probably be to her liking.”

     Brushing your fingers across the empty slot in your appointment book, you decide that half an hour probably isn't long enough to talk this particular customer over her options. You take one of the business cards from the corner of the counter – Po+rrim Maryam -- O Positive -- Tatto+o+s & Piercings – and find a pencil to begin jotting things down on the back.

     “I'll tell you what. I'm a little stretched for time right now, but if you're free this afternoon, say, at four o'clock... ?” She nods, bowing her head to watch as you write the name of a local café on the back, along with your mobile number. “We can talk over your options, depending on how much you're willing to spend on your friend.” 

     You hand the card over to her, and she reads it carefully, before slipping it into her purse.

     “Thank you for your assistance thus far, Miss Maryam,” she says with a knowing look in her eyes. She doesn't ask if this is how you usually conduct business.

     “Please, call me Porrim,” you say, and then, as if you're going to need to write it down to remember, you poise your pencil over your appointment book, and say, “And you are?”

     “Aranea Serket,” she says, and before you can try the tired but true old line of _that's a nice name_ , the door opens, and you know that you're momentarily going to have to divide your attention. “I'll see you later, Porrim.”

*

     The café you meet Aranea at is on the same street as your tattoo parlour, and though you arrive five minutes early, she's already sat at a table out on the patio, lost in a book. You spend a moment looking at her; she's a little softer around the edges than those you tend to deal with, but as they say, variety's the spice of life. Taking hold of the back of the chair opposite her, you ask if she'd like a drink, and she jumps, book clapping shut around her thumb.

     You're back a few minutes later with two iced teas, and Aranea has her hands folded over her book, now neatly placed on her side of the table. Taking a seat, you hand Aranea's drink over to her, and to nobody's surprise, proceed to talk about anything but tattoos for the better part of an hour.

     You make a show of interest in her in general, and she's more than happy to talk and talk, occasionally pausing to sip on her tea. But never for long enough to make it seem as if she's run out of things to say. She doesn't live far from here, which is what you figured; when people wander tentatively into tattoo parlours, not really knowing what they want, they tend to do so in their own neighbourhood. Aranea works down at the used book store, and you don't even have to resort to asking about the novel she's reading to keep the conversation flowing. 

     By the time she remembers what you met up for in the first place, you've moved on from iced tea to muffins, and she apologises profusely for keeping you. Because surely you must have other things to do, other clients to meet with. You lift a hand, waving it a little, and say that this is your free time to spend as you want to.

     “Meenah has always been interested in the more nautical side of things,” Aranea explains, and you're a little disheartened when the conversation turns to acknowledge that people other than the two of you do, in fact, exist, “So I was thinking we could start from there, in order to present her with as many choices that may well be to her liking as possible. Of course, knowing her, she'll ultimately chose something that wasn't initially offered up, but I want her to know that I've put both time and effort into this.”

     You nod, telling her it's as good a place to start as any. Much better than the teenagers who crowd around your store on weekends, pointing out kanji they don't even begin to understand, asking how much much it'll cost, how quickly they can get it done, as if it's nothing more than a simple transfer. 

     Of course, you can't have possibly brought any of your portfolios for her to look through, not knowing what it was she specifically wanted. You ask if she's free this Wednesday, same time, same place, once you've had time to put a few ideas together, and Aranea says it would be a pleasure to see what you've managed to come up with.

*

     The next time you meet with Aranea, folder of photos and designs under one arm, you sit next to her, so you can talk her through your initial ideas more easily. You keep the folder open in front of you, and Aranea has to lean over as you point out the designs you've already done. It's all standard stuff, really: ships, waves, tentacles, tridents, mermaids. Nothing too adventurous, and just the sort of thing someone probably wants in their first tattoo.

     The trident catches Aranea's imagination, and she says that Meenah would definitely like something like that, up the inside of her forearm, perhaps. You make a note of it, say you'll see if you can muster up anything similar, and turn to the next page. As you both pour over the rest of the designs, Aranea only wanting to look at them to see what work you've done in the past, now that she's made up her mind about Meenah's tattoo, you feel her thigh warm against yours under the table.

     Aranea doesn't comment on it, nor does she move away. Not until she gets a text and practically jumps to her feet, deciding that she needs to get the both of you a drink.

*

     Aranea drops by a few days later when you're out back, working on one of your regulars. You poke your head around the door when you hear your assistant, Latula, giving her a hard time, and because it's Aranea, you invite her to come hover while you work. She says she'd like to make an appointment for Meenah's tattoo. Her birthday's still a month away, but it doesn't hurt to be prepared.

     You tell her it's no problem, and have Latula pencil her in for whatever time she thinks will suit Meenah best, and you're glad when Aranea doesn't immediately make her excuses and say goodbye. You pull up a stool for her, and meet all of her questions with what you hope are well thought out answers. Even when you're done with that particular piece, she stays to talk, and you wonder how many thoughts she has going through that head of hers at any given moment.

     When her lunch break comes to an end, she says she'll see you soon, and Latula gives you an absurd thumbs-up as soon as she's out of the door. You roll your eyes, perfectly aware that Aranea is only being polite, but to your surprise, you do see her sooner than you were expecting.

     She's far too cute to be dropping by your tattoo parlour every now and again, just to see how you are, wondering if you'd like to get something to drink once you're done with work for the day; you tell her as much, and she only laughs, blushing belatedly when the words sink in, stumbling over whatever she manages to say next, and then talks twice as much as usual.

     Best to keep this strictly business, you decide, even when you start texting her as part of your daily routine. From the sounds of things, her and Meenah aren't going to be nothing but friends forever.

*

     Two weeks after first meeting Aranea, somebody new comes into your parlour. Which isn't anything strange in and of itself, because you're running a solid business, and your reputation remains excellent, so new customers drift in and out all the time. What makes this particular person stand out is the way she stomps up to the counter, Doc Martens striking hard against the polished floor, and then reaches out, snatching up a business card. She squints at it, then squints at you.

     “So. Maryam, huh,” she says, flicking the corner of the card. “What's the deal with you, anyway?” 

     You glance around the tattoo parlour, thinking the deal is obvious enough, but humour her and say, “Tattoos, piercings. The deal is that sort of thing.”

     She taps the card on her lower lip, _hmmmm_ , and then throws it down on the counter, palm slapping atop it.

     “Nope. Ain't buyin' it,” she says, and then looks you up and down, lip curled like you've just offered to pierce her tongue with a sewing needle sterilised over the flame of a lighter. “If there's something going on between you and Serket, I need to know about it pronto.”

     You're disappointed in yourself for taking as long as you have to realise that it's Meenah stood before you. For whatever reason, you were under the impression that she'd at least look as if she could be conceivably paired with Aranea, even if her personality grates against Aranea's. From what you've been able to tell over the space of thirty seconds. But as things go, Meenah looks far more like your standard customer: skinny jeans that don't do much for scrawny legs, an oversized black t-shirt, with plenty of chains and leather bracelets hanging off her.

     “Need any help, girl?” Latula calls from the back, where she's checking on supplies. When you say no, she believes you; this is hardly the first problem of the sort you've ever had to deal with.

     You lean forward, elbows on the counter, not wanting to throw hostility Meenah's way. If only because she's friends with Aranea. You curl one finger, beckoning her to come closer, and with a look of distrust, she leans in, but doesn't seem happy about listening to what you have to say.

     “The only thing _going on_ between me and Aranea revolves strictly around you,” you tell her, voice low, as if there's some chance of Aranea overhearing you spill her secrets. “I know it's imprudent to tell you this much, but seeing as you're so adamant about throwing baseless accusations my way, you should probably cast your mind forward a few weeks, to your upcoming birthday.”

     Meenah's very animated in her expressions. She seems to scrunch up her face in a new way every time a different word leaves your lips, and once you're done, she hops back, looking around her. The entire time, it's like there's a bad taste in her mouth; she presumably came in here to let you know what was what, but now that there might not be anything quite as scandalous as she thought going on, she seems a tad disappointed. 

     “No fuckin' way,” she says, throwing her hands out to the side. “This is what Serket's been sneaking around for all this time? Shoulda known she didn't have it in her to get up to anything actually shocking.” 

     She folds her arms across her chest, huffs, and doesn't look like she wants to accept this as the truth.

     “She's very thoughtful,” you say, “You should have more faith in your friend. And maybe not barge in here looking for a fight, rather than answers to your numerous enquiries and conspiracy theories revolving around Aranea.”

     “Shove off,” she snaps, and you roll your eyes. Meenah rolls her eyes, and you're suddenly exhausted. You don't know how Aranea puts up with her. “Girl just doesn't know what she's getting herself into sometimes, that's all. Gotta watch out for her.”

     You assure Meenah that you haven't lured Aranea into your web, but do tack on that it's nice Aranea has someone so willing to look out for her. Meenah sort of shrugs, but doesn't quite manage to lower her shoulders all the way, and you know that her overblown reaction is fuelled in part, if not entirely, by jealousy. She doesn't apologise for almost having caused a scene, but says she supposes she'll be showing herself out right around now.

     She has one last look around the place before leaving, and mutters that she guesses some of this stuff is actually kind of cool. 

     That evening, you text Aranea saying:

     I think yo+u co+uld save so+me mo+ney by instead asking Meenah o+ut fo+r her birthday.

     It takes her longer than usual to reply.

     Don't 8e a8surd. Meenah is my friend, and I only want to do something nice for her. ::::) Does this mean you've had the du8ious pleasure of making her acquaintance?

     Any minute now and the word _friend_ is going to lose all meaning.

     It do+es. She's just abo+ut as spirited as yo+u lead me to+ believe. Ho+w did a nice girl like yo+u wind up with a friend like that?

     The next reply comes in a lot quicker.

     Oh dear. I take it she wasn't on her 8est 8ehaviour? Not that her "8est 8ehaviour" is particularly exemplary to 8egin with........

     I'm o+nly teasing. ;) She seemed excited abo+ut the pro+spect o+f a tatto+o+. Which means yo+ur surprise is already ruined, but it's a small price to+ pay fo+r praise as high as, and I quo+te, "kind o+f co+o+l."

*

     After that, Meenah is in and out of the parlour like a fiddler's elbow. She drops by more often than Aranea does, which is saying something, with how regularly the two of you end up getting drinks after work. Yet somehow, the two of them never turn up at the same time. It's hard to say whether Meenah's dropping in to keep you under surveillance, or because she's bored; she's still under the not-terribly-misguided notion that you're moving in on her girl who isn't actually _her_ girl, as you've pointed out many times. You don't think it's right to be blamed for other people's hesitance.

     If they want to dance around their feelings, then that's no problem of yours. You're giving Meenah plenty of time to make her move, because drinks with Aranea don't ever become anything more than drinks with Aranea. You've actively had to stop yourself from inviting her around your place more than once, and you think you deserve some sort of medal for the restraint you're showing.

     Latula tells you to just go for it, consequences be damned, because your business is hardly going to suffer from the loss of one customer. Usually, you would, but there's something about Aranea that makes you happy to bide your time, to just hang around with her. And, admittedly, devote a fair amount of your work hours to thinking about her in slightly less suitable ways.

     To make things all the more complicated, something strange happens over the next fortnight: you begin to get along with Meenah. You're not certain how it happens, exactly. She's intentionally intrusive, drawing more attention to herself than anyone needs to, and gets into the habit of criticising you while you work, as if the person you're tattooing is nothing more than a hunk of meat. But one day, she announces that you aren't as much of a bitch as she initially assumed, and says you're not half bad. You've long since realised that she isn't as tough as she makes herself out to be, and after a while, you come to enjoy all of the absurd news she has to report.

     As it draws closer to her birthday, the big two-six, as she puts it, as if the number is of any importance, she gets more and more excited about her tattoo. You like that sort of enthusiasm in a person. No matter how oblivious she pretends to be about the fact she wants to put her mouth on Aranea's, she's entirely upfront with the rest of her feelings. She rarely acts as if indifference is attractive, and you begin to see what Aranea sees in her, and vice-versa.

     They complain about each other to you. Meenah will say that Aranea talks too much, and Aranea will say that Meenah doesn't know how to listen, and all in all, the two of them compliment each other well enough without need to use you as a go-between.

     She asks to see your tattoos, a few days before she's inked. You tend to wear suit trousers and a shirt to work, sleeves rolled up, so all she's seen are the swirls running down your forearms. Unbuttoning your collar and two buttons beneath that, you open out your shirt, obliging her. Meenah raises an eyebrow but then peeks down beneath your collarbone, staring rather shamelessly.

     “... whoa. Sweet as hell, Maryam.”

     The first time you see Aranea and Meenah in the same room is the day Meenah comes in for her tattoo. Seeing them together strikes you as strange, and you realise that over all this time, it hasn't just been you spending time with Aranea, hasn't just been you spending time with Meenah; they've been together, alone, plenty of times. They must've even spoken about you to each other. 

     With Meenah sat down in the chair, left arm held out for you to work on, and Aranea sitting close by for the moral support Meenah claims not to need, _pfffft_ , for the first time in your life, you feel as if you need to move your business to a bigger place. But they're paying customers, you remind yourself. They aren't simply your friends in this situation, and you can't tell Aranea to back off, and you can't tell Meenah to stop talking your ear off, in the same way that she always complains about Aranea doing (but you can tell her to stop squirming in her seat, at least).

     You remind yourself that you're a professional, and drown out their chatter by letting your thoughts take a direct route to the gutter when Aranea takes Meenah's hand. Meenah's knuckles turn surprisingly white, considering how much pain she claims to currently not be in. Things get easier as you sink into your work, and realise that you can get along with Meenah and Aranea together as well as you do separately. Meenah complains about everything she can think to, from being hungry to being bored, and then about the both of you making her laugh too much, and it does enough to keep you and Aranea entertained.

     It takes hours and hours, and it's going to have to be touched up over the next few weeks, but you get the general shape of the trident down, and Meenah seems pleased with it. The three of you come to a mutual agreement regarding how hungry you are, and Aranea points out that you must be famished, having been working all that time, and who are you to say no when they ask if you'd like to join them for dinner? And when the meal's done with, and everyone's spirits are as high as Meenah's arm is sore, who are they to say no when you ask them if they'd like to stop off at a club before turning in for the night?

*

     You'd like to say that you've never woken up like this before, bed covers lost to some far corner of your room, a warm body on either side of you, but that would be a lie. You'd like to say that this is all a result of one too many drinks, and that everything is so much of a blur that you can't remember who kissed who first, but again: that would be a lie. 

     The three of you were only on your first drink when it happened. You'd stood between the two of them, slipped your hand into Meenah's back pocket, and leant in to kiss Aranea. Because if Meenah wasn't going to make her move already, you sure as hell weren't going to stand by while nothing happened. Predictably, Meenah had torn the two of you apart, kissed Aranea harder than you had in retaliation, and then, red-faced, looking as if she was about to give you a black eye, kissed you, too. 

     And things had only gone downhill from there.

     You're the first to wake up, and Aranea stirs next to you when you reach out, lightly running your fingertips down her spine, smiling stupidly to yourself. Mornings like this are always so much better without the intrusion of a hangover. She wakes up slowly, blinking heavily, and switches between looking surprised to see you, and then pleased and uncertain all at once. She rolls onto her back, stretches out, doesn't mind your staring, and on the other side of the bed, Meenah wakes up with a grumble.

     Once she's awake enough to recall what happened for her to end up there, she sits bolt upright, and then won't look at either of you. She grumbles under her breath, swearing because her arm hurts, _goddammit_ , and before Aranea can offer any consolation, or you get the chance to point out that she probably shouldn't have been putting so much pressure on her arm directly after getting tattooed, Meenah's on her feet, tugging up her boy shorts. 

     She makes her way over to the bedroom door, and then hunches up her shoulders when it dawns on her that she doesn't know which way to go.

     “... need to pee,” she says, still not looking at you.

     “Second door on the left,” you tell her, and as soon as she's out of the room, you turn your attention back to Aranea.

     Aranea's grinning, obviously not insistent on being as awkward about this whole thing as Meenah is, and says, “Good morning, Porrim,” when you wrap your arms around her waist, and begin kissing her collarbone. She laughs as you move lower, hair falling from behind your ears, brushing across her skin, but by the time you reach her stomach, she's not laughing, not exactly. 

     “I sorted out your unresolved issues with Meenah,” you tell her, lips gazing her hipbone. Her fingers dig in at your shoulders, and she gives a little gasp. She's no longer giggling from mere contact, mind no longer hazy with sleep; you know she's thinking about last night, about her fascination with your lip ring. About what you were doing, the last time she tangled her fingers in your hair.

     “—or you've succeeded in causing more problems. Either way,” she says, voice hitching. You kiss at the curve of her hip, and she tugs on your hair, voice full of regret as she says, “We shouldn't. Meenah will be back at any moment.”

     Relenting, you plant a kiss on her stomach, and a final one on her lips, as you get to your feet, stretching your arms above your head.

     “I think she got lost,” you say, pulling on a jade green dressing gown, making no real effort to tie it up at the front. Aranea just lies there, watching you, far too pleased with herself when she manages to reclaim her glasses from the bedside cabinet and get a proper look at you.

     Meenah makes her way back short seconds later, and had she been wearing all of her clothes, you wouldn't have put making a run for it past her. You see what the hold up was once she's back in the room: one of her braids has come untied, and she's irritably trying to get it under control again. Only her arm is still as sore as a lobster sizzling in a pot. Or so she claims. When she refuses to do anything but stand in the doorway, arms folded across her chest – which can only serve to make the recently tattooed skin hurt more – Aranea shuffles over to the side of the bed, reaches out, and just about manages to tug Meenah over.

     She clicks her tongue and sighs, as if waking up next to two very naked, very affectionate women is the worst punishment she could've thought up for herself. But when you take out a bottle of lotion to rub over her new tattoo, and Aranea begins taming her hair again, she settles down a little, deciding that being the centre of attention isn't so bad.

     Once you're done with Meenah's arm, you lean forward to give her a good morning kiss, because you know her reaction will be ridiculous and endearing and nothing short of bratty. She kisses you back for half a second, and then huffs against your lips, determined not to enjoy herself. When you stand back up straight, she rolls her eyes, and falls back against your bed, arms stretched out either side of her.

     “Bitches, man. Bitches everywhere.”

     Aranea places a hand against Meenah's stomach, and you decide that it's best to give them a moment alone. No doubt they've a lot to talk about, and so you head out of the room, saying that breakfast is in order. The first thing you do once you're out of their sight, however, is text Latula. 

     Guess what.

     You do your best not to eavesdrop on Aranea and Meenah, unintentionally and otherwise, which becomes somewhat easier once you get the kettle on. For the most part, their conversation is subdued, with the exception of Meenah's occasional _What the hell_ s, and the odd _Oh my god, I can't believe you're still talking, Serket. How are you still talking?_

     wh4444t, do 1 3v3n w4nt to know wh4t you d1d th1s t1m3???

     And then, a few seconds later:

     so w4s 1t 4r4n34 or th3 no1sy punk grl?

     You take your time making tea, treating yourself to your favourite fruit blend.

     I do+n't understand why yo+u felt the need to+ include an "o+r" in that sentence.

     Honestly, you don't have much in the cupboards to make a decent breakfast, but after a night like that, no one's going to be complaining about the quality of the food. They'll just be grateful for the calories. You dig out a tray from one of the cupboards, stack it with a few bowls, a box of off-brand cereal and a carton of milk, and decide that will have to do.

     grl, dont t3ll m3 th4t m34ns wh4t 1 th1nk 1t m34ns. you dont h4v3 to k33p try1ng to outdo yours3lf!!

     Back in the bedroom, Aranea's managed to talk Meenah out of her boy shorts and into her lap, and when the door creaks on its hinges, pushed open by your back, Meenah shoots a glare your way, and wraps all of her limbs around Aranea. At least she's going for possessiveness, rather than bothering to feign any embarrassment, at this point.

     “Shove off, Maryam,” Meenah hisses, but once you've explained to her that it's your house, your rules, she barely even grunts when you settle down next to her.

     You point out that breakfast is perched on the chest of drawers by the door, but you all seem collectively uninterested in it. Your tea's getting cold on the tray, and you let it cool in favour of pressing yourself against Meenah's back, running your fingers back and forth across one of her thighs as you ask her where, exactly, she thinks Aranea should get a tattoo. 

     You kiss Aranea over Meenah's shoulder, and with a little twisting and turning, manage to place yourself back between them.

     “I trust you both managed to sort out your issues, and come to terms with your feelings,” you say in an _I-told-you-so_ tone, which earns you an elbow in the side from Meenah.

     Aranea, ever the more mature and articulate of the two, shakes her head, and then you're the one being lectured.

     “Somewhat. Though it was hardly as beneficial as it could've been, considering that you chose to abscond the room moments before such a discussion took place. It's a delicate situation, the handling of which was made all the more complicated by your intentional absence.”

     You try to interrupt her halfway through, and she places a hand against your mouth to shush you. You grin, kissing each one of her fingers, and once she's done, ask “So I'm considered a part of this, am I?” 

     And it's not that you expected to find yourself excluded after bringing Aranea and Meenah together like this, not really; it's only that they've known each other for so much longer than you've known either of them, and for all you knew, you were nothing but a catalyst between them. Someone for them to to flirt with instead of each other, and test the waters by seeing how frustrated the other became about it all. 

     But when you settle back down against the bed, Aranea on one side of you, Meenah on the other, you realise there's no way in hell last night would've been the simultaneous beginning and end of things. Because you're Porrim Maryam, you have two ladies wrapped around you, and right now your phone is buzzing through the wall, no doubt lighting up with messages about how r4d you are.


End file.
